


Unmend

by Oricalle



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Blood, Christmas 2020, Dark Knight Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Gen, Gift Fic, Mild Language, mild violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:35:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28309107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oricalle/pseuds/Oricalle
Summary: Ania Straka is the Warrior of Light.It's not enough for her.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 6





	Unmend

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inRemote](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inRemote/gifts).



> Merry Christmas, Remi!

The Dry Dune was one of Ul’dah’s least reputable establishments, a qualification that certainly spoke volumes in the desert metropolis. Each time Ania Straka leaned back in her chair, she could hear the aging wood moaning in protest, years of arid heat and disrepair having taken a heavy toll on the material.

The heavy greatsword slung across her back likely wasn’t helping matters, but Ania wasn’t keen on the idea of being separated from it.

“Ugh.” She looked across the table at her adventuring partner, a diminutive Miqo’te woman who seemed to be having far fewer seating-related issues, likely because she’d gotten to choose the table first. “Are you sure there’s nothing you can do about this terrible itch in my leg?”

The healer pursed her lips, shaking her head. “I could attempt to cleanse it with a spell, but as I told you in the Cry, and on the way back, I am wary of using additional healing magicks on what seems to be a frivolous injury. Cactuar venom in such a small dose causes itching, yes, but nothing akin to a lethal wound.”

Ania groaned. “Aye, you say that, M’calca, but you’re not the one with the itch.”

“Unnecessary overuse of white magicks can result in aetherial imbalance and piercing headaches.” M’calca grinned. “So hush your mewling. The client is here.”

Turning to glance over her shoulder, Ania could see a burly Hyur man approaching them. He wore the jewelry typical of a successful Ul’dah merchant, bangles and rings that declared the man’s wealth in no uncertain terms. It reminded her of a snake, covered in bright colors to warn of its lethal venom.

“And here they are, the conquering heroes!” The merchant let out a hearty guffaw as he approached Ania and M’calca’s table, arms thrown into the air in celebration. “Twelve take me, I thought I was finished when I heard my shipments had been stolen into Cutter’s bloody Cry!”

As the merchant slammed both hands on the table, Ania shrugged, clasping a hand around her mug of ale to keep it from sloshing out. “Antlions. Unpleasant little bastards, to say the least. Thankfully, my partner and I have taken on the Cry before. Of course, doesn’t mean it was any less of a pain in the-”

“The job was difficult,” M’calca interrupted, an eyebrow raised at Ania as she cut her off, “But certainly nothing we could not handle. We are pleased to have been of service, sir.” Despite the white mage’s polite words, Ania followed M’calca’s eyes directly to the merchant’s coin purse. Evidently, so did he, as he chuckled and reached for it.

“Well, ‘twas a job well done. Your payment, with my thanks.”

Two sizable bags of gil clattered onto the table, drawing the wide eyes of several of the tavern’s patrons. Quietly, Ania scooped her share into her pocket.

“Well then, I’d love to toast your health with a drink, ladies, but I fear the hour grows too late.” The merchant stood, giving an exaggerated yawn and stretch of his arms. “I’ll have to bid you a goodnight. I suspect I’ll have quite the morning tomorrow, now that my goods have been recovered!”

“Sleep well, my good man.” M’calca replied. Ania nodded, taking another swig of her drink as the merchant departed, a bounce in his step and a smile plastered across his face. Once he had left the Dune behind, M’calca turned to Ania with an eyebrow cocked.

“You seem uncommonly vexed for a woman who just received a pile of gil.”

“Damn the gil.” she muttered. “All we’re doing is lining that man’s pockets, while the Empire is at Ala Mhigo’s doorstep. I should be at the Ghimlyt Dark.”

“To do what, exactly?” M’calca’s ears were flattened against her top of her head. “Hurl insults at Varis from across an empty field? The fighting has ceased for now, the Garleans are fortified in their camp.”

“I should be breaking the camp, then.”

“I know that you’re a “godslayer”, Ania, but you aren’t bulletproof. They’d tear you apart alone.” M’calca grimaced as she took a sip of tea from her cup. “Sellsword work isn’t glamorous, but it keeps us fed. Keeps us alive, for the fights we _can_ win.”

Frowning, Ania gave a begrudging nod. “Aye, I suppose. Doesn’t make it not feel like shite, though.”

“That, dear Ania, is something we agree on.”

Her anger tempered, at least for the moment, Ania returned to her meal. While the Dune’s offerings were far from gourmet, that suited her fine. She’d had her fill of “graceful” meals in Ishgard, and never again wanted to see another silver spoon while a beggar starved out front. Aldgoat steak and watered-down ale tasted better than a bellyful of regret.

M’calca’s words, however, lingered in her mind. She thought of the war, of Ala Mhigo, of Fordola and Zenos and sand and blood and all of a sudden she’d lost her appetite.

“S’cuse me a moment.” she muttered, ignoring M’calca’s protests as she stumbled to her feet. She stalked out the tavern’s front doors, each shake of the gil pouch in her jacket ringing in her ears.

As Ania stepped into the cool desert air, she took a deep breath, doing what she could to center herself. The monks back at Rhalgr’s Reach had preached self-control, seeking inner peace, and for a time, she’d truly wanted to listen to them.

_But that wouldn’t do at all, now would it?_

From a distance, a scream rang out through the alley, and was suddenly silenced. Before she even realized it, Ania’s fingers were wrapped around the hilt of her greatsword. There was another shout, muffled now, but not so much that it escaped her notice. Not here, in the quiet streets of Ul’dah, so far from the battlefields in Ala Mhigo or the blaring alarums of Baelsar’s Wall. It chilled Ania to the bone, shocking her into a run when the hit of adrenaline seared through her body.

She dashed beneath the city’s ramshackle awnings, through the sandswept roads and into a shaded alleyway.

Two men were inside, one with his back on the ground as the other towered above him. Blood dripped slowly from the aggressor's fist, running red in the cracks of the road beneath. The man on the ground wore the grit-stained clothes of a caravaneer, while the other looked distressingly familiar.

_As if you didn’t know. As if you couldn’t tell the moment you met him. It was in his eyes._

“Ah. Well, this is quite the surprise.” The merchant still looked the same as he had inside the Dune, minus the blood on his hands and the scowl on his face that slowly turned into a sheepish look. “Sorry you had to see this. Price of doing business in Pearl Lane, I’m afraid.”

He inclined his head towards the fallen man.

“Here’s the reason for the errand I had to ask you on.” He spat on the man’s torso. “Little shite gets spooked by one peiste and thinks he ought to dump all his cargo right outside of _Cutter’s Cry_ and run off with his tail ‘tween his legs.”

Ania watched as the caravaneer took ragged breaths, a steady stream of blood coming from his mouth.

_Not fatal. Not yet. Does it matter to you? Would you rather it had been, to justify what you’re about to do?_

She drew her greatsword, letting its edge scrape against the sand below. 

“Leave him alone.” she snarled. The merchant raised his hands in surrender.

“It’s for his own good! He’s lucky he only tried to toy with my coinpurse, most men in my position would have had him gutted! I’m just teachin’ him a lesson, is all!”

_You want to visit them all, don’t you? Bring justice. Spill blood. Can you still tell the difference? Was there ever a time you could?_

“Get out of here before I end you.” Ania hissed. She began to walk slowly towards the merchant, growing closer to looming over the Hyur with each step as he continued to protest.

“Hey now, you listen to me! I’ve got some friends in the Blades! Be reasonable, sellsword, is this worth your freedom? This little scab worth getting locked up for? Turn the other way, and-”

She was inches from him now, weapon drawn and arms tensed. Drops of sweat were congealing on the merchant’s brow, eyes wide as they darted left and right. It would be so easy, so easy to _end it here, end this waste, stop him from ever hurting anyone again. That’s what you want, isn’t it? Fine. I’m with you. Do it._

“That’s enough of that.”

Ania whirled around as another voice entered the alley. The grip on her weapon eased, only slightly, when she caught sight of M’calca’s brown tresses and outstretched stave. She approached with it brandished, an unspoken threat Ania knew the mage had the power to back up.

The merchant, still shocked, pleaded with his eyes at M’calca, only to be met with a dismissive glare.

“I think, sir, you may have had a little too much to drink.” She stared at him from over her spectacles. “It’s probably best that we all go our separate ways and forget this evening’s events.”

Thoroughly pale now, the imperiled merchant backed away, his eyes still on the extended blade of Ania’s weapon.

“And sir? Should my companion discover you _teaching_ any lessons again, I don’t believe I’ll be so inclined to put my tea down and defuse the situation.”

“Hells…” grumbled the fleeing merchant, but he stayed in a state of retreat, turning and fleeing around a corner.

With some trepidation, Ania sheathed her blade.

_Let him run. It makes no difference. He is but one of thousands, after all._

She let out a slight groan as she lowered herself to the ground, offering a shoulder to the injured figure at her feet. Slowly, he took it, rising warily as M’calca began to cast a light healing spell. A faint blue glow extended from the gem at the tip of her stave, twisting through the night air. The man’s haggard breath began to lose its edge, and within a few moments of the regenerative magic coursing through his system,he was able to stand on his own again.

“Misses, thank you both so much.” His voice was still trembling, and Ania keenly noticed the way he only met M’calca’s gaze. “I owe you.”

“Peace, sir. We only wish for your good health, and need no other compensation.”

Ania nodded, humming her assent. The young caravaneer gave her a weak smile before setting off into the night, walking in the opposite direction of his attacker. As he disappeared into the night, Ania exhaled deeply, for what felt like the first time in minutes.

“You cannot do this.”

M’calca’s tone hovered on an edge between stern and consoling. “Every ill in Eorzea is not yours to mend, Ania.”

“Not even one right in front of me?”

“You would try to excise a tumor with a butcher’s blade.” M’calca replied. “We aren’t equipped to right all the wrongs of Ul’dah.”

“Aye, I know. We don’t cure the disease, we merely gut the infected.” Images flashed through her mind, the twisted corpses of half-turned Ishgardian heretics, Tsukuyomi’s towering form, and Ilberd’s grin as he plunged to his death. 

M’calca’s face fell, a grimace on her lips as she watched her companion’s fists tighten and unclench, rhythmic in the way of Rhalgr’s monks. 

“Perhaps you cannot solve every problem, friend. But there would be countless more innocents dead without your deeds.” She gestured towards the street. “One more tonight.”

The thought brought Ania little comfort, but she lifted her head to nod at M’calca. “I guess I can’t argue.”

“Not on my watch, you can’t.” A soft smile unfolded on the Miqo’te’s face. “Peace, Ania. You’ve spent enough time alone. Let your allies ease your burden, and we shall change this world in a way greater than slaying any primal could.”

“I’ll hold you to that, Calca.” she replied. The thought still sat heavy in her stomach. So long as she stood in defense of the defenseless, there could be no long rest for a Warrior of Light.

“So, what say you we go spend a bit of that lout’s money on getting ourselves properly drunk?”

Ania smiled.

Perhaps, she considered, a short one would do.

“I’ll take you up on that. I won’t be putting too many back tonight, though. I’d like to remember that bastard’s face.” She rested her greatsword on her back once more, nodding in the direction that the merchant had fled. “He’ll get what’s coming to him someday.”

Somewhere deep in her pockets, she felt her soul crystal warm.

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to Hoeyboey/PirateQueenCatherine and RisingChaos for betaing this fic! I very much appreciate it!
> 
> Hi Remi! I hope I was able to keep a lid on this and you didn't already know about it! I've wanted to do something for your FFXIV character for a long tim,e since we've been playing together (e4s clearers POG), and this is what I came up with.
> 
> You're a wonderful friend and I hope you like it!
> 
> (maybe enough to make up for ten thordan ex runs)
> 
> Thank you very much for checking out this fic! Feedback is always welcome, I love getting to read comments! I hope you have a wonderful day.


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